I
take it as an omen. In your diary to-morrow you may write down in the
business column that you have had a business letter from _me_, or as
near to one as I can go:--chiefly for that it requires an answer on this
matter of "outside importance," which otherwise you will altogether
leave out. But you will do better still to come. My whole heart goes out
to fetch you: my dearest dear, ever your own.
LETTER L.
Beloved: No, not Browning but Tennyson was in my thoughts at our last ride
together: and I found myself shy, as I have been for a long time wishing
to say things I could not. What has never entered your head to ask becomes
difficult when I wish to get it spoken. So I bring Tennyson to tell you
what I mean:--
"Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaaey?
Proputty, proputty, proputty--that's what I 'ears 'em saaey."
The tune of this kept me silent all the while we galloped: this and
Pembury, a name that glows to me now like the New Jerusalem.
And do you understand, Beloved? or must I say more? My freedom has made
its nest under my uncle's roof: but I _am_ a quite independent person in
other ways besides character.
Well, Pembury was settled on your own initiative: and I looked on proud
and glad. Now I have my own little word to add, merely a tail that wags
and makes merry over a thing decided and done.
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